Benedict Brunch

Stabbed sunrise

hemorrhages yolk

to dying sunset

salmon pinstripe veins

scrawled into

craters of a muffin moon .

Tarawera erupts pepper ashes

bomb Pollock hues

of fire lakes and liquid flames

spill across ghostly rocket trees -

Nature competes with Herself

on my plate.

Colonised Aladdin Lamp

grants Earl Tea and milking maids.

Sweetened with manuka cubes

mined from Pharoah’s resting place.

An eye-glass on a microphone stand

sings for its number 24.

Published in 'Plate in the Mirror: Poetry Anthology' - Nov 2016

NOUGHTS AND CROSSES

You Adams

I was never your sundown at Eve.

Your patriarchal ribs

built the cage in my chest

but the drumming of my heartbeat

was always to my own anthem.

You God

I was never your fallen.

Your old testaments

had no cause to be

carved as stone prophecies

into the wells of my palms.

You Demons

I was never your battlefield.

So I lay down sword and shield

and kneel within the circle

of your Legion

with open arms and spirit. 

For I belong whole.

I belong precious.

I belong living.

I belong.

I always have.  


Translated into Spanish online at 'CÍRCULO DE POESÍA' - Sep 2016

Moving Still

We dizzy ourselves sick
on the wheels of calamity
spin after spin after spin
we glutton our addiction to suffering.
We were brainwashed to believe
salvation explodes only from chaos
- Beauty splattered from Bing Bang.

However, I have found
perpetual struggle only grows
heart into stone
from which I cannot
taste the colours of this land
or hear the contractions of my pulse
or see words dance into voice
or smell the sizzle of spitfire passion
or feel the dawn of belonging

just a lump of jagged motionless
                  alone
in a meadow of surrounding sighs.


Translated into Spanish online at 'Circulo De Poesia' - Sep 2016

T-ball Wars

The junior squad

sit along the bottom of the bank

watching          in shell shock               silence.

Sammy, their best troop

                                       carried off
the diamond field

on a litter made from

mummies and daddies’ arms.

The captain

scratches her flat nose

touches the tongue of her cap

like she’s seen her older brother do. 

She huffs deeply-slow,

surrenders again 

to Saturday morning conscript.

The superstar sibling –

‘Smash-It Siaki’ – 

gives her an upward nod

and flutters his fingers   along his arm

                                                             from the sideline

Her eyebrows furrow at

the hand signal orders.

She picks up her wooden weapon,

            marches to enemy lines.

Her eyes scan the territory:

bases loaded

            infield infantry

            crouched and armed

            with hollowed gloves,

                                                          outfield cavalry

                                                          ready to charge at big hits.

She knows the drill:

            swings the bat side to side

            bounces from her knees

            loosens her shoulders

            bends her wrists.

Her comrades chant her name

and their team colours. 

Whoosh…

whoosh…

whoosh!

            Her helmet bounces off the turf.

Another casualty.

Published in 'Landfall 232' Nov 2016